Storytime
blackscalesofmiracles:
“Aw, you didn’t have to get up for my sake,” Chaoyi cooed as the old man struggled to right himself. It was endearing really, especially considering the struggle in recognition apparent on Logan’s face, and his demand a second later. Chaoyi flashed him his brightest saccharine smile and slid into the seat by the bed. “What do I want? Hmm…a bed ridden old Logan sick with the nastiest of plagues, what could I possibly want?”
His fingers and wrists already started twirling and precise, graceful, stroke at this point, mist gathering around them with sparks of golden light. He was hardly going to ask permission. “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.” The reassurance was delivered with a chastising look in his eyes before the dragon directed the flow of energy to one of the festering wounds on the old mutant’s body. Slowly, well relatively for him, the dead tissue started fizzling out and the underlying skin started moving in as the wound closed itself. The virus was still fighting back, warring in on any flesh it could take a hold of, but this little thing, this he could do.
“So, you been up to much over the last seventy years?” A distraction from the morbid display was probably welcome, even if it was Logan. Besides, he was rather curious what had happened to the old coot. “Looks like you’ve got a few offspring running around here.”
Logan went to growl out a snarky comment, but it quickly turned into a cough. He covered his mouth, inching as far away as he could as the man’s hands moved closer to him.
“What.” Another cough rattled in his chest. “What the fuck are you doing?” He couldn’t move very far away on the cot he was currently laid up on, so his attempt at escape was rather futile.
The mist and light seemed to . . . knit his wounds back together? He still felt like shit but . . . his hands weren’t bleeding when he flexed them wrong, and the bite wound didn’t look nearly as bad now. “What in the ever lovin’ shit is goin’ on? Who the fuck are you? What just happened?”









